


Wheatfield with Crows

by pooh_collector



Category: White Collar
Genre: Case Fic, Chronic Illness, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-06
Updated: 2014-06-06
Packaged: 2018-02-03 14:47:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1748417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pooh_collector/pseuds/pooh_collector
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This was my very first White Collar fic, written some time ago and originally posted on LJ.  It was for a prompt from Winterstar in some permanent injury fest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wheatfield with Crows

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Winterstar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Winterstar/gifts).



Art forgery cases were always tricky with Neal around. Peter always had to wonder whether or not his prime suspect was sitting in the chair across from him “helping” him solve the case. And this latest one was tricky indeed. It smacked of Caffrey/Mozzie in almost every way.

The Met was set to receive a shipment of van Gogh’s on loan from the van Gogh Museum in Amsterdam. A representative of the Met made certain that the paintings were properly authenticated and secured when they arrived at JFK, but by the time they reached the museum’s receiving dock something had clearly gone wrong, according the Edward Nashua the museum’s director. 

Peter, Neal and the rest of the team were meeting with Mr. Nashua in the conference room. He wasn’t being very forthcoming with the details, which made Peter nervous.

“Okay, please explain to us again why you think the paintings are forgeries.” Peter asked.

“As, I’ve said Agent Burke, I’m not certain that they are, our team at the museum is attempting to authenticate them now. However, there were some irregularities in the shipping container and the truck arrived a half hour behind schedule.” Nashua was pacing the back of the conference room as he spoke. He appeared to be in his early 40’s with pale skin and dark hair and eyes. He was tall, more like an NBA player than a museum director, Peter thought, and dressed casually for someone in his position in corduroy slacks and a green polo shirt. 

“In New York City traffic, a half hour late is more like 15 minutes early.” Jones muttered.

Diana caught the comment and smiled. Neal who was sitting right next to Jones didn’t, which made Peter’s Neal-o-meter start buzzing. As a matter of fact Neal was way too quiet, he wasn’t even fidgeting. 

Peter refocused his attention on Nashua. “What kind of irregularities are we talking about?” 

Nashua hesitated before replying. “Please understand Agent Burke that every museum has their own system that they use to ensure that nothing happens during transportation. I am hesitant to reveal our procedures with a known art forger in the room.”

Ah, so that was where Nashua’s hesitation was coming from, Neal. Peter thought about it for a moment. Kick Neal out the room and get full cooperation from the director or let him stay and have a reluctant and potentially uncooperative man on his hands. If it was a private collection Peter wouldn’t have batted an eye, but these were van Gogh’s on loan from Amsterdam to the Met of all places.

“Neal.” Neal looked up and Peter tilted his head toward the door. Neal nodded, got up and left the room, no protests, no comments, nothing. This cannot be good, Peter thought to himself.

Nashua spent the next 20 minutes providing minute detail about the transport process, including explaining about the special customs seals that were placed on the container after the contents were verified at the airport. Apparently, one the seals had been tampered with before the container reached the museum. 

“So that’s it, one seal wasn’t intact when the container arrived?” Peter was a little frustrated. It seemed to him as if Nashua had jumped the gun. But, then again Neal was acting off.

“One seal AND the delay of arrival.” Nashua replied a bit defensively.

“Right, 30 minutes late. When do you think your team will have completed authenticating the paintings?”

“Within the hour, I expect.”

Peter nodded. “Then let’s wait to see what they come up with. If the paintings prove be real, then there’s nothing to investigate. If not, my team and I will be on it.”

“I understand your reluctance Agent Burke,” Nashua replied in a tone that indicated that he clearly did not, “but every moment we lose is another moment that the thieves have to make good their escape.”

Geez, Peter thought, this guy has been watching way too many Noir films. “I appreciate your desire to jump on this as soon as possible, but there really is little we can do until we’re certain that a crime has actually been committed. Why don’t you return to the museum and call us as soon as you have the findings. I assure you that we will be checking possible leads on our end in the meantime.” In other words, Peter would be grilling Neal about anything and everything he might know about the situation. 

Nashua nodded and briskly exited the White Collar offices. 

“Diana, Jones, call Security at the museum, get the route the transport took and then see if you can track them from the airport to the museum on traffic cams.”

“Sure thing Boss.” Diana replied as she and Jones got up and left the conference room. 

Peter followed them, stopped on the landing to give Neal the double finger point and then continued on into his office.

Neal showed up a minute later, lingering in the doorway. Peter noticed the usual bounce in Neal’s step was absent. 

Peter pointed to the visitor’s chair, Neal’s chair, and told him to sit.

Neal sat. He had yet to meet Peter’s eyes. Peter’s Neal-o-meter was buzzing furiously. 

“What do you know about these van Gogh’s Neal?

Neal finally looked up at Peter, innocence written all over his face. “Nothing Peter, really.”

Despite the look on Neal’s face, Peter wasn’t ready to let Neal off the hook. “You have to admit that this is right up your alley.”

“Was, right up my alley. I play for the good guys now, remember?”

“Uh huh. Is Alex in town, what’s Mozzie up to?

Neal scrubbed his face with both hands, shaking his head. “Peter, I’m not involved, my friends are not involved. I don’t really know what else to say, what you want to hear.”

Peter took a close look at this partner, searching for the truth or lack thereof in Neal’s words. Despite his ever impeccable appearance, blue suit, matching tie, crisp white shirt, Neal looked tired, his eyes a bit puffy and red. 

Peter sighed leaning back in his chair. “Okay, l’ll let it go… for now, but what’s going on with you today?

Neal mirrored Peter, sighing as he leaned back in his chair. “Nothing. I’m just tired.”

Trying to assess Neal’s words for hidden meaning had become a full time job for Peter. This time Neal seemed sincere and he certainly did seem tired, now that Peter had taken a good look.

“Alright. Why don’t you try calling some of your contacts. See if there’s any chatter about some hot van Gogh’s.”

Neal nodded and left Peter’s office. Peter felt relatively certain that Neal was telling the truth about the van Gogh’s, but for some reason his Neal-o-meter was still going off.

Two hours later Neal and Peter were at the Met. Nashua had called, two of the five painting looked to be forgeries. 

Neal was relieved when they finally arrived. The car ride had not gone well. The movement out the windows made his vision swim and blur leaving him nauseated and unsettled. 

They were led from the main lobby back into the bowels of the acquisitions offices. The Met was preparing for a small retrospective on the work from van Gogh’s last two years before his death between 1888 and 1890 so the paintings laid out on the five workstations were some of van Gogh’s last, and in Neal’s mind, best works. 

Olive Grove, Almond Blossom, Irises, The Bedroom and Wheatfield with Crows. He had seen them before, in Amsterdam, but they still took his breath away. He had a secret love for van Gogh and despite his abilities he had never attempted to forge one. Neal honestly believed that he didn’t have the passion to match what van Gogh had created.

“Neal.” Peter said, motioning toward the workstations. 

Neal started to move forward to determine for himself which of the paintings were forged and the techniques used to do so.

“That won’t be necessary.” Nashua said moving between Neal and the workstation that he was headed toward. 

“Actually,” Peter replied in a tone that brooked no argument, “it is.” He nodded at Neal to continue.

Neal moved around Nashua on his way to examine Irises. It didn’t take him long to determine that it was the genuine article along with Almond Blossom.

As he turned toward The Bedroom, Neal noticed Nashua stiffen. It was a dead give away, but Neal would decide for himself anyway.

He had his answer in moments and moved on to Olive Grove which was clearly the original and finally to his personal favorite Wheatfield with Crows.

As Neal bent his head toward the painting, his vision faded again, and he slammed his eyes shut against it, but he couldn’t help but sway slightly as it caught him off guard.

“Neal?” Neal could hear the concern in Peter’s voice. Thankfully, his vision had cleared when he reopened his eyes. 

“I’m good,” he muttered leaning in to examine the canvas.

He spent several minutes on Wheatfield, looking closely at the brushstrokes and the depth of the colors. Then he turned to find Peter watching him closely and Nashua scowling at him.

“The Bedroom and Wheatfield with Crows are forgeries.”

Nashua’s scowl deepened and Peter nodded for Neal to continue.

Neal sighed; he was growing tired of Nashua’s blatant mistrust. “The work on The Bedroom is nearly flawless, the depth of the reds on the bedspread, for instance. But the original was restored recently and they added a coat of varnish, something that van Gogh didn’t do. This copy isn’t varnished. “

He turned back to look at Wheatfield again before continuing. “The brushwork here is good, but not van Gogh good. And, the micro cracks should be a bit more pronounced. “

“Yes, well, my team naturally came to the same conclusions. The question now is how are you going to recover the paintings?” Nashua stated somewhat defensively.

Peter turned to Nashua, about to reply when Neal spoke up. “Peter, there’s one more thing.” 

Peter glanced toward Neal and Neal’s vision blurred once again. He pushed on despite the fact that he couldn’t clearly see Peter. “The artist,” Neal hesitated, swallowing hard, “wasn’t the same person.”

“The artist,” Nashua said, spitting out the words.

“What do you mean Neal?” Peter replied calmly, almost coaxingly.

“The Bedroom is good Peter, if it hadn’t been for the varnish I may not have been able to tell it was a forgery without testing the canvas and the paint. Wheatfield wasn’t painted by the same person, it’s not as good, the brushstrokes aren’t as clean, the depth of color not as well matched.” Neal hesitated now not certain if he should continue with his thoughts.

But, it was clear Peter knew he was holding back and Neal didn’t want to give Peter anymore reason to suspect him of this. “I’m just speculating, but I think The Bedroom was done some time ago, certainly before the reconstruction on the original. As good as this guy is, he would have done his homework, he would have known about the varnish. And, I think Wheatfield was done more recently.”

“Okay, that means we’re looking at two suspects.”

“Maybe….maybe not.”

“Well which is it Mr. Caffrey, two suspects or one.” Nashua chided.

Neal did his best to ignore him, focusing on Peter. “If it were me, I wouldn’t work with someone who wasn’t as good as me. I’m just guessing, but I don’t think whoever painted The Bedroom was involved in the actual theft.”

It took another hour at the museum to examine the transport truck, the packing crate that the paintings had been loaded in and listen to Nashua’s suspicions. By the time they left Neal looked awful and Peter was worried. He sat beside Peter in the Taurus with his eyes closed, his forehead creased, his face pale.  
It didn’t take much thinking on Peter’s part to decide not to take Neal back to the office. 

Neal seemed to have dozed off by the time Peter pulled up in front of June’s. He put his hand on Neal’s knee to wake him. 

“Hey,” he said gently when Neal came awake.

“Hey,” Neal replied, blinking his eyes and squinting against the afternoon sunlight streaming in through the windshield.

“Where are we?” The parking garage at Federal Plaza was not this bright.

“June’s. You’re done for the day.”

Neal thought about protesting, they had a lot to do if they were going to recover the van Gogh’s. But, whatever had been going on with his eyes was getting worse and all he really wanted to do was take a hot shower, down some Advil and go to bed. He was fairly certain he would be fine tomorrow if he got a good night’s sleep.

So he stopped himself, nodded to Peter in acceptance and got out of car. 

Halfway up the stairs to his rooms Neal’s vision greyed out again. What the hell is going on, he thought to himself as he grabbed the banister with both hands. As he stood there waiting for the darkness to lift he heard June’s voice from the bottom of the stairs.

“Neal dear, are you alright?”

He started to nod, but quickly realized what a bad idea it was, “just a little tired,” he mumbled instead.

June had climbed the stairs and was gripped his elbow. “Let me help you, dear.”

Neal opened his eyes again to find June’s brown eyes large with concern. “I’m fine.”

“I’m sure you are,” she replied. “But do an old lady a kindness and let me pretend that I can help you up to your room.”

Neal smiled at her and then let her help him up the stairs and into his apartment. 

Twenty minutes later he was laying curled up on the sofa in his dark apartment waiting for the Advil he had taken to kick in. He had been surprised by what he had seen in his bathroom mirror, his face starkly pale in contrast to his puffy, red eyes. No wonder Peter and June were being so careful with him. He looked like crap. And, he felt like crap too, his head and particularly his eyes aching.

It took far longer than he had hoped, but eventually the Advil kicked in and Neal drifted off into a light sleep.

***

“Hey Neal, I think I might have something… Neal?” It took a moment for Mozzie to realize that the apartment was completely dark as he shut the door behind him. 

There was no immediate response, so Mozzie called out again. “Neal, are you here?”

There was the sound of movement from the living room and Mozzie flicked on the lights. 

He heard a grunt and then Neal said “Mozzie, shut them off.”

Moz flicked the lights off again quickly. Then he turned around the corner toward where Neal was on the couch. Neal reached over and turned on the reading lamp next to him. The light was still too bright, but far more tolerable than the overheads. 

“Isn’t it a little early for bedtime?” Mozzie enquired as he sat on the coffee table in front of Neal.

Neal had his face buried in his hands. “I have a headache.”

“Well, maybe this will take the pain away.” Mozzie replied with a flourish of his hands. “I think I have a lead on who forged your van Gogh’s.”

Neal looked up at Mozzie, still squinting against the meager lamplight. “What did you find out?” He asked eagerly.

“Whoa Neal, what happened to you?” Mozzie’s eyes bugged within the confines of his glasses at his first good look at Neal’s face.

“Never mind that, what do you know Mozzie?” 

Mozzie hesitated, looking closely again at Neal.

“Moz, please?” Neal begged impatiently. 

Mozzie nodded acquiescing. “Rusty.” 

“Rusty is fencing the hottest paintings this century?”

“Well, no, not yet, but he got a call from some guy who claimed to have them, asking Rusty if he would fence them.” 

“What guy? Moz, does Rusty know who this guy is?”

“Rusty never heard the name before. The guy called himself Irving, not really sure if it’s supposed to be a last name or a first name.”

Neal was having trouble thinking through the pain in his eyes. “Did he give Rusty a way to contact him?” 

Mozzie didn’t answer. He just looked at Neal as if he was unwilling to add to Neal’s misery.

“What, what Mozzie?” 

“Rusty’s still not sure if he’s going to take the job, so he wouldn’t tell me anything else.”

Neal dropped his head back into his hands and sighed. “Did he not get the fact that you would tell me and I would tell the FBI and that his chances of being caught in the midst of making the deal were pretty high?”

“I didn’t exactly tell him why I was inquiring.” 

“Of course not.” Neal huffed, keeping his faced tucked into his hands.

“Neal, man, you look like shit. Are you sure you’re okay?”

“No. But, I’ll be fine after I get some uninterrupted sleep.”

“Yeah, okay I can take a hint.” Mozzie relied as he got up off the coffee table and headed for the door.

“Moz,” Neal called after him.

Mozzie looked back at his friend.

Neal looked up at him, his eyes horribly puffy and red. “Thanks.”

Mozzie waved off Neal’s gratitude and headed back toward the door. “I’ll keep on Rusty. See if I can get more on this Irving guy.”

Once he heard the door shut, Neal turned the lamp off, got off the sofa and shuffled over to his bed, fighting against the dark spots marring his vision. He tumbled into bed and curled up moaning at the pain in his eyes.

As he waited for sleep to come, Neal thought about van Gogh and Wheatfield with Crows. It was possibly the last thing that van Gogh painted before taking his own life. What had he been thinking about while he painted the waving wheat, the path that stops off to the right of the scene, the deep black birds flying overhead? Neal knew that most people saw a darkness in the work. But, Neal didn’t. Neal believed that he saw the same beauty in the scene that van Gogh had. Van Gogh shot himself in a wheat field. Neal always thought it was the same one painted in Wheatfield with Crows, this same place of beauty where van Gogh sought his release from the torment and illness he had suffered with his whole adult life. Neal would get it back. It belonged in Amsterdam, in the place dedicated to van Gogh’s art and his life. 

It took awhile, but eventually Neal fell into an exhausted sleep, his last thought a pleading hope that things would be better in the morning.

They weren’t. When Neal’s alarm went off he had already been awake for more than an hour. He had stumbled blindly to the bathroom, downed four more Advil and then fell onto the couch praying they would kick in before he needed to get ready to go to the office.

Unfortunately, the Advil were barely scratching the surface of the pain in his eyes. He got up anyway, turned off the alarm and with his eyes closed made his way to the bathroom to shower. Somehow he managed to finish getting ready through touch and half-closed eyes. 

June came to his door at one point, inviting him down for breakfast and he begged off telling her that he was running late and would catch something at the office. Which was entirely true, between the pain in his eyes and his blind fumbling to get showered and dressed, time had slipped away from him. 

It wasn’t until he was walking out of his apartment that he thought about sunglasses and how much better his eyes would feel protected from the light. Not to mention how much they would do to hide the puffy redness which seemed to have gotten worse overnight.

The sunglasses did help and keeping his eyes closed for the whole cab ride in helped too. He needed to tell Peter about Rusty and Irving, then he would tell Peter he still had a headache and go back to June’s, or maybe he would stop at the emergency clinic on the way home. 

The ride up to the 21st floor in the elevator was particularly unpleasant. Despite the sunglasses and his closed eyes, the upward movement made the pain in his eyes escalate, and black motes dance behind his closed eyelids.

By the time the elevator doors opened Neal was shaking and nauseated. He took a deep breath in a vain attempt to steady himself and headed toward the glass doors of the White Collar offices. 

Peter had been keeping one eye on the doors waiting for Neal to arrive. He had been concerned since dropping him off at June’s the previous afternoon. And watching Neal walk into the offices now, his concern only grew. The dark glasses Neal wore did nothing but accentuate the paleness of his face and they were a dead giveaway that something was still bothering him.

Peter moved out onto the landing and motioned for Neal to come up to his office. Neal didn’t respond and started toward his desk.

“Neal.”

Neal jerked his head toward Peter. Peter watched as Neal swayed slightly on his feet and his face amazingly paled even further. 

Neal covered quickly and made his way slowly up the stairs toward Peter.

“Peter, I’ve got a lead.”

“In my office.” Peter answered as he turned and walked toward the glass enclosed space.

Neal followed him swallowing down his nausea. Peter waited for Neal to cross the threshold and then closed the door behind him. “Sit.”

Neal fumbled for the chair, found it and sat. Peter walked around his desk and took his own seat.

“Peter, Rusty he spoke to this guy who called himself Irving…”

“Neal, stop.”

“But, Peter I really need to tell you about…”

Peter slammed his hand down on the desk. Neal nearly leapt out of his seat. “Stop and tell me what’s going on with you. And, take those damned sunglasses off.”

Neal hesitated, then closed his eyes, pointed his head down and took off the glasses. “Peter please just let me tell you what I’ve learned about the van Gogh’s.”

Peter humphed which Neal took to mean that he could continue. “Rusty, this fence I’ve been associated with in the past, got a call from some guy who called himself Irving who claims to be in the market for a buyer for The Bedroom and Wheatfield with Crows. Mozzie’s still looking into this Irving guy, but Rusty hasn’t passed on the job yet, so we might be able to get him when, if, he meets with Rusty. “

“Okay, that’s good. I’ll get Jones and Diana right on it. Now tell me what the hell is going on with you.”

Neal lifted his head and looked toward Peter, not at Peter, toward him. He was visibly shaking and his eyes held a look that Peter had never seen before. The Neal-o-meter was screaming.

“I can’t see you Peter, I can’t see anything.”

Neal seemed insanely calm when he spoke those words despite the tremors. 

Peter was kneeling in front of Neal before he even registered getting up from his chair. He put his hand on Neal’s knee and Neal startled.

“Tell me what’s going on buddy?” He asked quietly.

Peter could feel Neal’s shaking grow worse. “My eyes hurt Peter, they hurt so much.” Neal’s breathing hitched and then the words just started tumbling out of him. “It started yesterday. The light hurt, and then I was seeing black spots and everything would go fuzzy. And, it just kept getting worse and now I can’t see anything. I can’t see anything.”

Peter took his hand from Neal’s knee and put it around his back, rubbing gently up and down. “It’s gonna be okay. Can you walk if I help you?”

Neal nodded as his breathing hitched again.

Peter took the sunglasses from Neal’s lax fingers and carefully put them back on to cover Neal’s eyes. He then helped Neal stand and led him out of the office with an arm around his back. As they started down the stairs Peter called out to Jones. “Jones, go get your car and bring it up to the front of the building, now.”

Clinton took one look at Peter and Neal and took off out of the offices at a run.

Peter refocused his attention on Neal as he felt the younger man hesitate on the stairs. “It’s okay Neal, I’ve got you. One step at a time.” Neal began moving again as Peter tightened his hold.

They made it out to the car without incident, as long as you discounted some pretty odd looks they received from people they passed on the way out. 

Jones was standing by the car with the back door open, ready to help Peter get Neal settled.

“We’re going to get you in the car now, Neal. “ Peter stated as he changed position to place one hand on the top of Neal’s head, the other on his arm to help guide him down and into the back seat. Once Neal was seated, Peter reached in and secured Neal’s seatbelt. 

“Jones, Beth Israel.” Peter said as the moved around the car and got in beside Neal.

“You got it, Peter.”

 

Fifteen minutes later, Peter had his arm around Neal again as he guided him into the emergency room. “Come on buddy, come sit over here while I get us checked in.” Peter led Neal over to the end of a bank of seats and helped him down. “I’ll be right back. I’m just going over the desk to sign in.”

Neal didn’t reply. He hadn’t said a word since his ‘confession’ back in Peter’s office. This is bad, this is really bad, Peter thought as he headed toward the sign-in desk.

Peter quickly filled out the requisite forms with the scant knowledge he actually had about Neal’s health history and then returned to his partner.

“Neal, it’s just going to be few more minutes, okay?” 

Again, Neal failed to respond. He was sitting hunched over on himself, his shoulders stiff and still shaking. 

“Neal, is the pain worse?”

Neal nodded slowly and then spoke so softly that Peter had to lean over to hear him. “What if I’m really blind, Peter? What am I going to do?”

Neal sounded so lost, so forlorn. All Peter could do was gather Neal up in his arms and whisper, “We’ll figure it out together. But, let’s get you in to see a doctor first, no jumping to conclusions.”

Neal buried his face against Peter’s shoulder, the sunglasses jabbing Peter painfully in the neck. But, he just held on tighter until they finally called for Neal to be brought back to an exam room. 

Peter tried to go with Neal, but a nurse who was likely military police at some point in the past, stopped him. The guy didn’t even flinch when Peter pulled his badge out. "I'm sorry sir, but you're going to need to remain here. A doctor will be out to see you as soon as we have some information." 

Peter spent a few minutes pacing the waiting room, before he finally realized he had calls to make. He hit three on his speed dial as he stepped out the sliding emergency room doors.

“Boss, how’s Caffrey?” Diana asked as soon as she picked up the phone.

“I don’t know anything yet. They just took him in to be examined. Has Jones told you about Neal’s lead?”

“Yeah, Boss. We’re on it. We’re tracking down Rusty and once we’ve got him we’ll put a detail on him. Hopefully, he’ll lead us to this Irving guy. We’re also still trying to see if we can find anything on the two forgers Neal thinks are involved. And, we’ve reviewed all the traffic cam footage. The only thing we could find is that it looks like the driver actually left the airport later than he claimed on his transport log.”

“Good, good. Get the truck driver in and question him. Also, check his financials. Keep me up to date.”

“Sure thing, Boss. And, call us as soon as you know something about Neal. Tell him Jones and I are pulling for him.”

“I will. Thanks, Diana.”

Peter hung up, took a deep breath in preparation for the next call and then hit speed dial one. 

“Hey hon, I can’t really talk now, I’m just catching a cab to get to the office for a client meeting.”

“El... ” Neal’s in trouble and I need you, we both need you. That’s what Peter wanted to say, but for some reason the words got stuck in his throat.

“Peter, honey, what happened? Where are you?” 

“Neal, he’s sick El. I don’t know what’s going on, but…he.”

“He what? Peter?”

“He can’t see, El.”

“Where are you Peter, I’m on my way.” 

“Beth Israel.”

“I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

Peter nodded forgetting that his wife wouldn’t be able to see him through the phone. 

***

It was a long twenty minutes. Peter had spent it worrying a path in the floor of the waiting room and worrying about what was going on with Neal. Every time the hospital doors opened he looked for Elizabeth. When she finally came through them, he couldn’t believe how truly relieved he felt. 

She wrapped her arms around him and led him over the same spot he had sat in with Neal. 

“You’re wearing a hole in the floor. Just sit with me for awhile.” She had one of his hands gripped in both of hers. God, she was so strong, and he needed her strength now so much.

They sat there together in silence for awhile, to Peter’s mind a long while, before a disheveled looking man in a lab coat emerged and called out for Peter Burke. Peter and El stood and walked over to meet the doctor.

“Neal would like to see you,” the doctor said, “so I’ll make this brief.” 

“Wait,” Peter interrupted. “See us, does that mean that Neal has his sight back?”

“Not yet. Neal has an acute case of pars planitis, a form of uveitus.”

“Okay, can you switch to English now?” Peter huffed impatiently. 

“Sorry, let me start again. Hello, I’m Dr. Zack Evans.” The doctor held out his hand and Peter took it automatically.

“Neal has a severe infection in both of his eyes. It is affecting his vision, and it’s causing him a lot of pain right now. With treatment it is more than likely that Neal will regain most if not all of his vision back. We have him on steroids to reduce the inflammation and once they’ve had a chance to take affect his vision should return. In the meantime, he’s also dehydrated, exhausted and as I said before, in a lot of pain. We’ve got him on an IV and some heavy pain medication.”

Peter released the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “So he’s going to be okay.”

“Yes, but uveitus, in most cases is recurrent. Neal will need to be on the steroids for probably six months or so and then he’ll need regular eye exams to be sure that if it does recur, that it never goes this long without treatment again. And, there is still the issue of possible partial vision loss.”

“Does he know?” Peter asked.

“Yes, he does. He’s pretty stoic, that one.”

“Thank you Dr. Evans.” 

“You’re quite welcome. Let me take you to him.”

In the exam room Neal was lying curled up on a gurney, an IV cannula stuck in the back of one hand. He looked even worse to Peter than he had before they brought him back here. His skin was so white as to be nearly translucent, his hair was lank and his eyes were an angry red.

Peter could see his own distress at Neal’s appearance reflected on his wife’s face. El immediately moved to Neal’s side and picked up his untethered hand. “Hey sweetie,” she crooned.

“Elizabeth. Peter?”

“I’m right here buddy.” Peter said as he patted Neal’s knee.

“Peter they took my cell phone.” Neal was clearly agitated. Peter wasn’t sure whether it was from the stress or the medication, or both.

“We’ll get it back later Neal, it’s okay.”

“Peter, I need my phone, Mozzie may have called. What if he has a lead on Irving?”

“Hey, don’t worry about the case right now okay, just rest.” 

“But, Peter…”

“Shush.” El’s fingers were in his hair, gently brushing it back. After a minute Neal let himself give in to comforting feeling. 

“Call Mozz, Peter. We have to find them.” He slurred, the combination of the exhaustion and the pain medication taking effect.

“I will, Neal, just rest now.” 

***

Neal dreamed he was in the Wheatfield. He was still blind, but he could hear the swish of the wheat stalks waving in the breeze. He could smell the earthiness of the land around him. He could feel the road leading to nowhere beneath his feet. Despite the fact that he could not see, Neal felt calm, peaceful. This is how van Gogh must have felt here, he surmised. The crows cawed overhead and Neal understood, they were beckoning him, “follow us to the end of the path”, they said. Neal took a deep breath and started walking. He wondered what would happen when he reached the spot where the path ended, where he would be. He continued forward, his left hand outstretched to brush against the wheat stalks as he passed. The path grew narrower and the darkness Neal could sense seemed to grow darker still. Neal continued on. In the waking world the darkness had been frightening, forbidding, overwhelming, but here it was simply the mark of the unknown. He was getting close to reaching the end point when he felt a sudden jolt and before he could find his answers he was torn away from the Wheatfield. 

He wasn’t sure what woke him, or how long he had been asleep, but Elizabeth was still gently running her fingers through his hair and the IV port was gone from the back of his hand.

“Hey sweetie, you with us?” She asked quietly.

“Mmm,” was all he seemed to be able to manage in reply. 

“You want to try opening your eyes for us, there’s only a small lamp on so the light shouldn’t bother them.”

Neal wasn’t really sure how he felt about the idea of opening his eyes. The peacefulness that he had experienced in his dream was gone and the fear had returned full force.

“Maybe later,” he mumbled readjusting so he could bury his face in his pillow.

“Okay, but you should at least have something to eat. There’s a sandwich here and a banana.”

“Not hungry.” 

Elizabeth frowned at Peter who was sitting on the other side of Neal’s bed.

“Come on Neal, sit up.” Peter tried to be stern, but it was hard when Neal seemed so lost. 

Neal huffed, but did as he was told, pushing himself up into a sitting position, his eyes still closed.

Peter gently pushed Neal forward so that he could adjust the pillows to make him more comfortable. Then he took Neal’s hand and placed half of the sandwich in it.

“I’m really not hungry,” Neal muttered again just before stuffing the sandwich into his mouth.

“Uh huh,” Peter replied, clearly amused by Neal’s actions.

“Ugh, this tastes awful.” Neal made a face and then took another huge bite. 

“It’s hospital food sweetie, it’s supposed to taste awful.” El replied.

“Awful, is one thing, worse than prison food is something else entirely.” Neal stated with disgust just before shoving the last bite of the half sandwich in his mouth.

El ran her fingers through Neal’s hair again. “I’ll bring you something better later, okay.” Neal was beginning to think that El was obsessed with his hair and he was beginning to think that he was really okay with that.

“Please. I would be forever grateful. Would someone please hand me the other half of my sandwich.” 

Peter snorted at Neal’s loopiness. It was good to hear him sound less distressed Peter thought, as he grabbed the other half of the sandwich and placed it in Neal’s hand.

“Peter, I want to go home. When can I get out of here?” 

“Dr. Evans wants to keep you here until there’s improvement in your vision. “

Neal sighed and took another bite of sandwich. He chewed slowly, thoughtfully and then swallowed. “Guess I’m going to need to open my eyes before I get to leave then?”

“Yeah, Neal, you’re going to need to open your eyes.”

Neal’s eyes stayed closed while he finished the sandwich. 

“What do you think Neal, ready to give it a try?” El asked encouragingly.

El and Peter both saw Neal’s face shutter. “I’m tired. I want to go back to sleep.” Neal pulled himself back down into the bed and tucked his face back into the pillow.

“Okay buddy, get some rest. We’ll be here.” Peter couldn’t help but feel disheartened. He had no idea how to help Neal right now and it was making him a little nuts.

***

This time Neal dreamed about The Bedroom, not the place, the painting. Or to be more precise, about the forgery he had seen at the Met. Neal followed the lines of the floorboards, past the wicker seated chair, up onto the bed. The red of the bedspread was perfect, the shading, the depth of the color, the curve of the brushstrokes. 

And, suddenly Neal knew whose hand had painted this perfect bedspread. 

Neal woke up with the knowledge still in the forefront of his mind. “Peter?”

“I’m here buddy,” came Peter’s voice from beside the bed.

“I know who it was.” Neal said pushing himself up to a sitting position.

“Who what was?” Peter replied, clearly confused by Neal’s statement.

“Who forged The Bedroom, Thomaso Vercchelli.” 

“Thomaso Vercchelli? How do you know?” Peter asked. 

“He was the best, at least, he was the best at post-impressionist art. No one could forge a van Gogh like Vercchelli.”

“Okay, we’ll put out APB.” Peter replied pulling his cell from his jacket pocket.

“That won’t actually be necessary, Peter. I know where he is.” 

“You know where he is?” 

“Well, not exactly, but close enough under the circumstances.”

Peter was getting frustrated with Neal’s hedging. It was harder to read him when Peter couldn’t see his eyes. “Neal, would you please cut to the chase.”

“He died, about four years ago.”

“Ah.” Peter sighed heavily. “So, we know who forged the paintings, but we’ve got nothing on who committed the switch.”

“No, Peter. I was right when I said that The Bedroom wasn’t painted by the same person as Wheatfield with Crows.”

“So the second forger may still have been our thief?”

“I think so.” Neal replied, nodding.

“Any thoughts on how we track him down?”

“Have you heard anything from Mozzie or Rusty?” Neal asked expectantly. 

“Not yet.”

Neal nodded and then was quiet for awhile. Peter gave him time.

“I don’t remember ever hearing about this van Gogh being on the market anywhere. Maybe Thomaso didn’t try to pass it off or sell it. If that’s the case, who would have access to his possessions, particularly after he died?”

“A relative. Neal that’s brilliant.” Peter beamed. 

Neal heard the beep of a cell phone.

“Diana, find out who the living relatives of a guy named Thomaso Vercchelli are. Looks like he was the forger of The Bedroom.”

Peter replied to a couple of questions from Diana and then he hung up the phone.

When Peter looked toward the bed again Neal was crying, wet tracks sliding down from his closed eyes. 

“Neal?”

“I’m a conman Peter and an artist. It’s how I’ve defined myself for over 15 years. What am I if I’m blind?”

Neal heard the sound of metal scraping against metal, the guardrail on the bed being lowered and then he felt Peter’s weight settle beside him on the bed.

“Come here.” Peter said as he gently took Neal by the shoulders and pulled him against himself.

Neal couldn’t help letting out the sob that had worked its way up his throat. “If I can’t help you anymore they’ll send me back.”

“No, NO. I will not let that happen, Neal. I will not let anything bad happen to you. El and I will take care of you.” Peter said as he wrapped his arms tighter around Neal’s back.

“It’s gonna be okay. We’ll work this out together.” Neal felt calmer, safe in Peter’s arm, but he couldn’t stop the tears. The uncertainty of what his life would become, what he would become, if he didn’t get his sight back….

Peter just sat and held him, murmuring reassurances in his ear.

***

Peter was once again sitting watch over Neal as he slept. It had taken awhile, but eventually the tears had stopped and Neal had fallen asleep against his shoulder. Peter had gently lain him back down in the bed before returning to his molded plastic chair.

His cell phone vibrated and Peter answered it glancing at the name on the screen first.

“What’ve you got for me Diana?”

“Boss, we know who our second forger is, Irving Vercchelli. He’s Thomaso’s grandson. Inherited Thomaso’s entire estate.”

“Neal did it again.”

“He sure did, Boss. We’ve issued an APB and we’ve got his apartment in Queens under surveillance. We also know what happened with the driver. He confessed to Jones that he’s got a TSA girlfriend and he left the truck unattended while he visited with her. Apparently, it’s something he does on a regular basis. It wouldn’t have taken much for Vercchelli to do a little surveillance and find this perfect opportunity.”

“Great work Diana.”

“How’s Neal?”

“Scared. His doctor should be here any minute to check his eyes. I’ll keep you in the loop.”

“Thanks Boss.”

Peter disconnected the call, dropped his phone back in his pocket and resumed watching Neal. 

Not long after, Dr. Evans came in looked over at Neal and then quietly greeted Peter. “How’s he doing?”

“Afraid to open his eyes.”

Dr. Evans nodded, went over to the bed and gently shook his patient.

Neal was instantly awake. “Hey Neal, it’s Dr. Evans. How are you feeling?

“A bit better, I guess.” Neal replied hesitantly.

“And, the pain in your eyes, better, the same, worse?

“A little better.”

“Good, that’s good. Agent Burke will you turn off the lamp and then I’ll take a look at your eyes, Neal.”

“I don’t think I’m ready for that.” Neal said, the anxiety evident in his voice.

“It’s going to be fine.”

“People keep saying that, but I’m not so sure.”

“I know it’s scary, but you need to trust me.”

Neal took a deep breath and then slowly opened his eyes. 

It was dark in the room, but Neal could tell that it was dark, he could see the outline of Dr. Evans leaning over him. 

“How are you doing Neal? The outline asked.

“I think I can see you, it’s dark.”

“Yes, it is. Agent Burke, can you switch that lamp back on please?”

Neal steeled himself, ready to slam his eyes shut again. But, when the lamp came on it merely cast a gentle glow on the room. As his eyes adjusted Neal was able to make out the features of Dr. Evans’ face. He still seemed blurry, but Neal could see him. He could see him!

“I can see you.” Neal said hesitantly. 

“Good, Neal, that’s really good.” Dr. Evens replied, clearly pleased with Neal’s statement. He held up two fingers. “How many fingers do you see?”

“Two.”

Dr. Evans nodded as he moved further down the bed. He stood next to Neal’s knees, held up his hand again, three fingers extended this time and asked, “How many fingers am I holding up now?”

“Three.”

“That’s great, Neal.” He moved a little further down, parallel to Neal’s feet and held up four fingers. “And, now?”

“I’m not sure, it’s pretty fuzzy.”

“That’s okay. It’s still going to take some time for all the swelling to subside.”

Neal nodded in response, but he was clearly still very anxious. 

Dr. Evans came back up beside him, dropped the guardrail on the bed and sat next to him. “Neal, I need to take a look at your eyes. The light’s going to be really bright, but I need you to stay still.”

Neal nodded again, not trusting his voice. 

Then the light was in his right eye, painfully bright. He couldn’t help but flinch. And, then Peter’s hand was gripping his shoulder. “It’s okay, buddy.”

Neal took strength from Peter’s support and held still until Dr. Evans was done.

“They’re looking a lot better Neal. I see no reason why you won’t regain at least 90 percent of your sight back.”

Neal let go of the breath of hadn’t realized he was holding on to, and then he heard Peter do the same.

Dr. Evans laughed. 

“Okay, here’s the deal”, he continued. “You’re going to continue to take the steroids orally for a minimum of four months, probably six. You will NOT decide at any time that everything is fine and stop taking them without the permission of your ophthalmologist. If you don’t have an ophthalmologist, you do now. I’m going to let you go home today, but I will see you next week, or sooner, if there is ANY worsening of ANY of your symptoms. You will not return to work until I clear you. Understood?”

Neal gave the doctor a sloppy salute and said, “Yes sir, doctor sir.”

“A couple of other things, take it easy. Keep your movements slow. I suggest wearing dark glasses any time that the light seems too bright for you.”

“That works for me.” 

“Good, I’ll go get your discharge paperwork started.”

Dr. Evans got up and started toward the door.

“Dr. Evans,” Neal called out to him. “Thank you.”

“I would say anytime, but I really don’t want to do this again. And, you’re welcome.”

***

Peter was grinning like an idiot. Neal was sitting beside him in the car. His eyes were hidden behind his sunglasses, but he could see. He was getting better and he was going to be alright.

“Peter, would you turn that thing down. I’m going to need to cover my sunglasses with another pair of sunglasses to help with the glare coming off your teeth.”

Peter snorted. “Whatever, Caffrey.”

“You know Peter, I’ll be fine at June’s.”

“You probably would be. I on the other hand, would not be fine if I arrived home without you.”

“Elizabeth’s that intent on mothering me?”

“Intent? That my friend is a rather massive understatement.”

“Well, then lead on McDuff.” Neal said with a genuine smile.

Twenty minutes later Neal was ensconced on the Burke’s sofa, his shoes off, his feet up. The lights were low and El was plying him with tea and home baked cookies.

Peter was in the kitchen on the phone with Jones.

He came back out into the living room with a wide smile on his face while Neal was munching on his third cookie.

“Good news?” Asked El.

“Very good. We got Irving Vercchelli and we recovered both of the van Goghs’.

“That’s fantastic Peter.”

“Yes, it is and we couldn’t have done it without you Neal.”

Neal nodded and was quiet for a minute.

“Neal?

“Can I ask a favor, Peter?”

“Maybe.” Peter replied carefully waiting for the Neal-o-meter to start up.

“Can we go to the exhibit when it opens at the Met? I would really like to see the originals again.”

“Absolutely, we can go as many times as you want.” 

Neal stayed with Burke’s for two weeks; when Dr. Evans finally released him to go back to work. Neal’s vision loss was only 5 percent and there was a decent chance that he could still recover further.

A week after that Peter let himself into Neal’s apartment. “Hey, El’s expecting us for lunch in half an hour, so we better get a move on.” 

The apartment was flooded with noonday light. Neal was standing in front of his easel, paintbrush in hand. “Give me just a couple of minutes.” Neal said, smiling over at his partner. He cleaned off the paintbrush and headed toward his wardrobe to put a shirt on over his tee.

Peter wandered over to the easel while he waited for Neal. On it stood an incredible copy of The Bedroom. To Peter it looked exactly like the original he and Neal had seen at the Met a couple of weeks before.

“Ah, Neal do I need to be worrying about this?” He asked pointing to the canvas.

Neal smiled and walked over to join Peter in front of the painting. “Of course not. I just wanted to see if I was capable of seeing the world through Vincent’s eyes.”

“And, your conclusion?”

Neal smiled brilliantly. “Yes, I am.”


End file.
